


kiss me (like you mean it)

by kirargent



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Clary & Simon, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Love Confessions, Neck Kissing, POV Clary Fray, Pining, Politics, Sharing a Bed, The Clave, minor implied homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clary agrees to pretend to be Isabelle's girlfriend, hoping to make things easier for Alec if and when he decides he wants to come out. Considering that Clary's had a major crush on Izzy since the day they met, this might be a terrible idea.</p><p>Then they find the Mortal Cup, the Clave gets involved, and Clary finds some bigger reasons to worry about Isabelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> [steadfastclara](http://steadfastclara.tumblr.com) requested: clizzy prompt (kinda) : that bed sharing trope in fake dating aus you know the one rip & [poeo](http://poeo.tumblr.com/) said: ooh clary/isabelle and 9 (jawline kiss)! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clary can handle sleeping in Isabelle's bed, staring at the sleep-soft bow of her mouth while she's unconscious, her hair fighting to be free of its braid and her tank top strap slipping from her shoulder and her eyes fluttering slightly as she dreams. She can. She can totally handle this.

It's not yet even six in the morning, but Clary Fray is wide awake.

This has nothing to do with an early-morning appointment, or a healthy sleeping schedule—but everything to do with the girl next to her in the large, soft bed with its red sheets and comforter. Her dark hair is caught in a single loose braid, the end of which lays just at the edge of Clary's pillow, not her own.

Clary swallows, her breathing shallow, her eyes tracing along the gentle curve of Isabelle's shoulder, the golden brown of her skin exposed underneath the thin straps of her tank top.

Isabelle shifts slightly in her sleep; Clary snaps her eyes shut.

A moment later she peeks them open again, relief rushing through her chest when Isabelle appears to still be sleeping soundly.

She's relieved because she can't—she can't _really_ stare at Isabelle like that. Not when she _means_ it. She's in this bed because for the weekend, she and Isabelle have one mission and one mission only: to shove so much blatant same-sex relationship into Isabelle's parents' faces that anything Alec ever does won't have the power to shock them.

Isabelle thinks it's a great plan. She came up with it herself, after all.

Alec would kill them if he found out, probably.

Jace doesn't know, either—if he's still somehow oblivious to Alec's orientation, Isabelle and Clary don't plan to be the ones who out the poor guy.

Simon thinks the plan is silly, not because he doesn't think it might work, but because he's the only one who knows about the gigantic freaking crush Clary's had on Isabelle Lightwood since pretty much the day they met. But Clary's a big girl. She can handle it. She can handle the feeling of Isabelle's warm hand in her own as she whispers something in Clary's ear and giggles; she can handle Izzy's soft breath against the shell of her ear. She can handle Isabelle dragging her in by the back of the neck for a dramatic, tongue-filled goodnight kiss in full view of Maryse before a hand-in-hand retreat to Izzy's room.

Clary can handle sleeping in Isabelle's bed, staring at the sleep-soft bow of her mouth while she's unconscious, her hair fighting to be free of its braid and her tank top strap slipping from her shoulder and her eyes fluttering slightly as she dreams. She can. She can totally handle this.

The sound of footsteps elsewhere in the Institute makes Clary's heart skitter in her chest like a nervous animal. The person is still at least a floor away; Clary only hears them thanks to the runes that enhance her senses, drawn on by Isabelle's steady hand while Clary bit her lip and looked away.

The footsteps are sharp, echoing. Like high heels.

Maryse.

“Izzy,” Clary hisses. Under the covers, she kicks at Isabelle's calf with her bare toes. “Iz, wake up.”

Isabelle blinks, her face scrunching in a frown as she opens her eyes. “What?” she says, voice dry and slightly higher than usual with leftover sleep. “What time is it? What's going on?”

“I think your mom's coming,” Clary whispers.

Isabelle blinks a few times, processing Clary's words and the situation. “Oh,” she says. And then again, her mouth curving up into a sharp smile: “ _Oh._ ”

 

 

Clary's eyes are closed, her attention too focused on Isabelle's lips at the line of her jaw to keep in mind the fact that she's not supposed to be enjoying this.

Enjoying it, like, a _lot_. Like, a lot a lot.

Isabelle is on top of Clary, their legs tangled together. She holds herself up with hands bracketing Clary's shoulders, letting her body rest against Clary's without crushing her.

Clary tips her head to the side, giving Isabelle better access to the underside of her jaw. Isabelle's teeth brush her skin; Clary shifts underneath her, allowing a soft noise of appreciation to leave her throat. It will pass as faked, for show.

Isabelle is warm against Clary's front, her breasts soft, her thigh a line of muscle. Her teeth pinch the thin skin at the hinge of Clary's jaw; then her tongue passes against the spot, warm and light.

There's the sound of Maryse clearing her throat, and Clary thinks _no, go away, go_ away.

Against her neck, Clary feels Isabelle's mouth curl with a smile. She pulls back, pushing herself up on her hands.

“Mom,” she says coolly.

Clary blinks her eyes open, not inclined to move from beneath Isabelle.

Maryse is quiet for several long, strained moments, seeming to collect herself.

Staring up at Izzy like this is something like a religious experience, Clary thinks. Her lips aren't painted with red lipstick but they're flushed dark pink from the kissing; her eyes are big and dark and hazy. Her braid spills across her shoulder, wisps of hair fighting free, tangled but soft-looking.

She looks every bit the part-angel that she is. If Clary were to draw her right now, like this, she would sketch wings from Izzy's shoulders, wide and graceful and holy.

“Well,” says Maryse finally. “Your dad would like to speak with you over breakfast, Isabelle. There's a matter with the Seelies.”

Isabelle removes herself from on top of Clary— _frown_ , Clary thinks—and stretches, slow and lazy, her tank top lifting to show her strong abs.

 _I'm gay_ , Clary thinks. _I'm gay and I want to date Izzy Lightwood for_ real _, damn it_.

“All right,” Isabelle tells her mother. “I'll be down in a minute. Just let me get dressed, okay?”

Maryse gives a curt, uncomfortable nod. Isabelle grins down at Clary. Maryse departs, leaving open the door of Isabelle's bedroom.

“This is going great,” Isabelle whispers, her dark eyes glittering and her tone thick with excitement. “Thank you, Clary.” She clasps both of Clary's hands in her own, looking her in the eyes. “I mean it.”

Then she hops up from the bed, pulling a long, satiny dressing gown from a hook and disappearing into her bathroom.

Clary lets herself go limp, sinking back into Isabelle's mattress, hating this situation passionately with every fiber of her being.

Maybe once Isabelle is satisfied that they've at least begun to clear a pathway for Alec, Clary will ask if she'd like to date for real. She'll finish helping out with the plan first, and then she'll ask Isabelle if that might be something she wants.

Maybe they won't even have to fake a breakup.

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you for doing this. Really.” Izzy takes one of Clary's hands, brushing her thumb across Clary's knuckles, and Clary barely suppresses the shiver that darts up her spine.

Clary continues to “date” Izzy for the next week, and things are going pretty well, she thinks.

That they've found the Mortal Cup, that a girl with a snappish tone and a blond ponytail commandeered the Institute from the Lightwoods, that there's a minor incident involving angel-blooded Forsaken attacking the Institute—all of that is just background to Isabelle, Isabelle, Isabelle. Background to staring at Isabelle as she laughs, holding Isabelle's hand, kissing her on the cheek, touching her arm at the dinner table for no reason other than physical contact.

Clary has yet to mention her true feelings to Izzy, but she's thinking maybe in another week she'll do it.

Then Simon will finally have to stop nagging her about what a bad idea this all is. He literally turned into a vampire this week—the only thing significant enough to temporarily pull Clary's full attention away from Isabelle—but once he got over the initial bloodlust and angst, he was back to being the same old Simon, bugging her about her love life.

In another week, Clary thinks, Isabelle's parents will have gotten as used to one of their children in a same-sex relationship as they're going to, and if Isabelle doesn't feel the same, then they can “breakup” and still have bushwhacked a trail for Alec to come out if and when he decides that's what he wants.

It's a Saturday midmorning, cloudy outside, New York's tall buildings casting shadows across a ground painted in grayscale. The Institute's first floor is busy with activity, but the long halls of its upper levels are quiet.

Clary follows Izzy into an empty training room, the ceiling high and the floor bare, a few padded mats pushed against the wall beside a rune-locked cabinet stocked with Shadowhunter weapons.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Clary asks, facing Izzy in the center of the room, her arms crossed. Her heart beats quick in her chest, her throat tight. _Say you want to make this real_ , she thinks. _Say you want to talk about us._

Isabelle presses her mouth into a small, uncertain pout. Her fingers flutter at her side. “Us.”

Clary's heart pounds violently against her rib cage, so hard it almost hurts. It's quiet in the big empty space.

Isabelle twists her hands together in front of herself. She looks hesitant. Clary smiles at her encouragingly.

Isabelle sighs. In a rush, she says, “It's not working.”

Clary's heart jams its way into her throat. There is a second where she has yet to process the words. Then her stomach drops, and there's a thick-throated moment of sick disappointment.

Then she says, “What?”

Isabelle sighs, her big eyes sad. “Us pretending to date? It's not working.” She pushes a hand through her long hair, and Clary feels too much like she's been kicked in the stomach to even get caught up staring and wishing she was allowed to tangle her hands into its soft waves.

“What do you mean?” Clary's voice comes out small. She clears her throat, frowning. “I thought it was working. Don't your parents believe it?” Her eyes feel hot, her throat clogged.

Izzy presses her lips together. “No, they do. They think we're dating.” She crosses her arms over her chest, jaw set. “It's Alec.”

Clary frowns. “Alec?”

“He says he's happy for us, and that he wants me to be happy—and that he'll do anything he can to stop our parents from coming down any harder on me.” Izzy's mouth twitches. “Like I didn't know what he meant.” One of her graceful hands curls into a fist at her side. “He's not going to come out,” she says slowly, annoyance in her tone, “because he thinks it'll just further upset our parents and put me in even hotter water for dating a girl.”

Clary watches Isabelle closely, trying to ignore the hot waves of disappointment rolling through her. They're of no help to anyone right now.

“Oh,” Clary says quietly.

Isabelle looks grim. “Yeah.”

Clary picks at the side of her jeans. “So … What should we do?”

“We have to break up,” Isabelle says. Her tone is curt and clear, business-like with no audible indication that her insides feel as much like heavy wet cement as Clary's.

“Right,” Clary says, nodding. Her throat burns, her eyes warm, her palms sticky. “Of course. Okay.” She swallows. “Um. Do you want to do it in front of Alec, or just tell him that we decided to—” she grips the denim of her jeans tightly “—to stop seeing each other?”

Izzy shrugs. “You know I love drama.” She flashes a smile that falls quickly. “But there's really no reason to stage a big dramatic scene. I'll just mention it to him and our parents the next time I see them.”

Clary nods, swallowing through a throat that feels lined by sandpaper. “Okay,” she manages.

Isabelle's face softens, her red mouth tilting up at the corners. “Clary,” she says, taking a step closer.

Clary feels like her throat is closing up; her eyes sting. She does her best to keep her expression blank.

“Thank you for doing this. Really.” Izzy takes one of Clary's hands, brushing her thumb across Clary's knuckles, and Clary barely suppresses the shiver that darts up her spine. “It'll still be a good thing. I'll lie low for a while, and then I'll convince Alec that I won't face the backlash if he comes out.” She smiles, her dark eyes warm and glittering. Clary's insides feel like warm mush, her stomach melting down to her toes.

Isabelle bites her bottom lip. Clary tracks the motion, then flicks her eyes quickly back up from Izzy's mouth, her cheeks warming.

“Clary …” Isabelle starts.

Clary's heart beats quickly in her chest. Izzy's hand is warm in her own.

Then the door swings abruptly open, admitting a grim-faced Jace, and Clary takes a small, hasty step back from Izzy as Izzy drops her hand.

Jace doesn't even bother raising an eyebrow at them, apparently too preoccupied. A Jace too distracted to tease them about holding hands—that's bad news. Clary's heart beats fast for a different reason now.

“Clary,” Jace says. “Lydia knows about the Cup.”

Clary's eyes widen. “What?” She's doused in immediate panic. “The Clave can't take it—it's the only leverage we have to get my mother back!”

Jace nods. “I know. Come on, we have to go. If we move now we can grab it before they find it.”

Izzy steps forward, already drawing her stele from her pocket and tracing an extra rune of Silence into the soft skin of her forearm. Clary is almost, but not quite too upset, to be distracted from staring at the harsh curls of the rune against Isabelle's warm-brown, muscled arm.

“We need Alec's stele to get the Cup,” Isabelle says. “I'll call Magnus.” She looks away from Jace, focusing on Clary. “Clary, get ready to leave.” Her gaze flicks back to the doorway. “Jace, make sure she's armed.” And she pushes past her adoptive brother into the hallway, leaving Clary blinking after her.

Jace's smile is on the smug side of knowing. “Like it when your girlfriend takes charge?” he asks.

Clary swallows, forcing a sarcastic smile at Jace. “We broke up,” she says, trying not to sound too bitter. She sets her jaw, folding her arms across her chest. “Now are you going to get me a weapon, or not?”

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clary huffs quietly, irritation prickling under her skin. The fact that Jace knew her first inclination would be to storm back into the Institute to help irks her—and the fact that he told her _not_ to pisses her off even more.

Clary grips her seraph blade tightly, her eyes fixed on the door of the Institute.

She's standing with her back pressed to the wall, partially concealed by the shadow of the overhanging roof. The hood of her moss green jacket is up to cover the signal flare that is her bright hair, but she still feels utterly exposed along the side of the Institute despite knowing that Jace and Izzy told Lydia Clary was already gone, and the Shadowhunters aren't searching for her in the Institute and on its grounds.

Clary's cell phone buzzes in her back pocket, and she jumps even though she's been waiting for Jace to text her. She presses her lips together, annoyed with herself for being so easily startled.

The last weeks have already turned her into a Shadowhunter in many ways, but she's still far from being unshakeable like Isabelle, fearless like Jace, or hyper-competent like Alec.

Chewing her lip, Clary scans Jace's text.

_Problem. We're handling it. Get out of here, go somewhere the Clave won't think to look._

A second later another text buzzes in.

_And for the love of God Clary, don't come back to help us. We're getting the Cup, but we don't need you to come back and put everybody on high alert. Just go._

Clary huffs quietly, irritation prickling under her skin. The fact that Jace knew her first inclination would be to storm back into the Institute to help irks her—and the fact that he told her _not_ to pisses her off even more.

Still, his words make her hesitate long enough to consider the potential damage her actions could do. What if she barges in just as Izzy and Jace are about to sneak out with the Cup and blows the whole thing? She could ruin her chances of getting the Cup and getting her mother back, not to mention putting Jace and Izzy at risk of getting caught going against the Clave.

Clary grits her teeth. She clutches her seraph blade tightly enough that she begins to wonder whether there's enough strength in her Angel-blooded hand to damage its hilt.

Jace, she admits unhappily to herself … is probably right.

She should go.

_But where won't the Clave think to look for me?_

 

 

With a sour face and a roll of his eyes, Raphael lets her into the hotel.

Clary beelines for Simon, easily ignoring the other vampires who seem uninterested in Simon but eye Clary watchfully as she passes.

“Simon,” Clary says, wrapping him in a hard hug. She pulls back quickly, scanning his face for discomfort. He had said that they might have to build up to hugs, after the whole turning-into-a-vampire thing.

But Simon's face is calm, holding nothing but a slight smile.

His smile is just the same, though it's still weird to see him without glasses. And there's something else changed about him, too—not just the new paleness of his skin, but the way he holds himself. Like he's standing a little straighter, almost.

“You look good,” Clary says, trying to keep emotion from choking her voice and doubting she succeeds.

“You look … like you're in trouble,” says Simon, raising his eyebrows. “Clary, what's going on?” His eyes are dark in his newly pale face, his brow furrowing with concern. “Why the panicked text?”

Clary bites her lip, glancing at the vampires scattered along the outskirts of the room, their bodies not directly facing Clary and Simon but their eyes wary and watchful.

“Oh,” says Simon. “Right. Um.” He eyes the other vampires, mouth twisting with frustration. “I can't leave, Clary,” he says, voice guilt-laden. “Sunlight.”

Clary shakes her head immediately, not wanting him to feel bad. “It's okay, Simon. It's safest here, anyway. I don't think the Clave will look for me here. They don't even know about you. I mean, you being turned into a vampire and everything.”

Simon looks thoughtful, pressing his lips together and nodding a little, his eyebrows lifting. “Well, a least my going Dracula has some perks,” he says pleasantly. He gestures at the old abandoned hotel around them. “Sick new hideout for us, huh?”

Clary feels herself grinning, a hot swell of emotion cresting in her chest. Her eyes go a little blurry.

He's still the same Simon she's always known.

“Yeah,” she says, voice only a little wobbly. She sniffs defiantly, grinning and biting her lip. Simon returns her smile easily.

Clary loves Simon's smile, loves Simon, loves his jokes and his determination and his kindness. He's grounding, familiar, a place of calm in a world that's a storm of newness.

Even if he's a vampire now, he's still Simon.

Clary takes his hand, his bony knuckles familiar even if his skin is chillier than ever before, his palm the temperature of the room instead of warm like it belongs to a living being.

“Come on,” she says lightly. “Can we go upstairs or something?” She glances around again, mouth tight. “Somewhere a little more private?”

“Sure,” says Simon. “Easy. This place is huge.” He smiles at Clary, and she wonders for a second if his canines have always been that long.

Then she shakes her head, smiling back, and lets him show her to an old, creaky staircase. They ascend, and the anxiety that's been sapping Clary's hope and energy since Jace barged into the training room at the Institute lessens, just a little.

 

 

“Raphael still sees his family, you know.” Simon is perched on one arm of a green leather couch, its cushions indented by dots of brass. “Every Sunday.”

Having finally stopped pacing, Clary now sits leaning back against the couch arm opposite Simon, her legs extended down the couch. She takes a breath. “Simon …”

Simon shakes his head, ducking it and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know. I'm not—I know I can't go home until I figure out how to control myself better.” He shrugs. “I'm just saying.”

Clary chews on her lip, overwhelmed with sorrow and guilt for the position in which she's placed her best friend.

“He's got,” Simon says, touching the hollow of his throat with a finger, “this little scar, right here, because he wears a crucifix on a chain every time he goes to see them. But it burns him, you know? Because he's a vampire, and it's holy, a symbol of his faith.”

Clary bites harder into her lip. She bites down so hard that her lip stings sharply, and she tastes a tang of copper in her mouth.

Simon's head snaps immediately in her direction.

Realizing what she's done, Clary gasps aloud. “Oh, Simon, I'm—I'm so sorry.” She scrambles to swing her legs down from the couch and pull her stele from her pocket, glad Raphael didn't liberate her of it when he took the seraph blade from her upon her arrival.

She fumbles to quickly draw an _iratze_ , the rune burning as she traces it into her skin. Simon's fingers dig into the arm of the couch, white-knuckled, his head turned away. Clary barely feels the pain of the Mark of healing on her forearm.

The pain in her lip fades rapidly once the rune is complete, and Clary watches Simon slowly relax his grip on the couch.

“Simon—I'm so sorry,” Clary says, stopping herself from biting her lip again.

Simon shakes his head. “It's okay,” he says. But he looks pale.

Or maybe that's just the vampirism.

“Really,” says Simon. “It's not as bad—”

But Clary never gets to find out what isn't as bad, because just then her phone vibrates in her back pocket, and she's on her feet in a split-second, sliding open a message from Jace.

Her heart plummets, a sharp, fast descent.

_Didn't get the Cup._

Clary keeps reading, her chest tight.

_Izzy caught. Clave accusing her of working for Valentine._

Clary sucks in a breath.

“I have to go,” she chokes out, speaking around her heart, lodged firmly in her throat. “Simon, I'll—I'll see you soon, okay?”

Simon is on his feet, sudden and silent. “Clary? What's going on? What's wrong?”

Clary shakes her head, jamming her phone into one pocket and her stele into the other.

“Clary?” Simon presses.

Clary swallows hard. “It's Izzy,” she says, her voice pathetic.

By the look on his face, that's all the explanation Simon needs. He disappears before Clary's quite reached the hotel door, returning moments later with her seraph blade in hand.

His mouth a thin, grim line, he waits carefully away from the door as Clary pulls it open, throwing only one last look to where he stands cloaked in shadow before she dashes out into the warm, bright afternoon.

 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabelle will be fine. She can't be dishonest while holding the second of the Mortal Instruments, so the Clave will have to believe her. All she has to do is tell them that she's not working for Valentine, and they'll have to clear her. Right?

No one here trusts Clary. She's viciously aware of this, the skittish glances, curled mouths, and narrowed eyes of the other Shadowhunters making their distrust utterly clear.

She swallows, leaning back against the wall around the side of the old stone building that houses the Institute. It's quieter out here, the grounds empty of the muscled mass of Shadowhunters in the Institute.

The Shadowhunters haven't arrested her, at least—although she suspects that's only because they don't have any real proof that she's in cahoots with her father, a fable which many of them still seem to believe even though it's totally ridiculous. He _kidnapped her mother_. Clary hates him just as much as any of them, not that they believe her.

And now they think Izzy's on Valentine's side, too. Izzy, who'd sooner risk her own life that than of an innocent Downworlder—working for Valentine, an extremist who's hellbent on slaughtering every last faerie, vampire, werewolf, and warlock. The idea might be laughable, had it not gotten Izzy arrested and sent to trial. As it is, Clary's finds it a struggle to drag up so much as a forced smile, much less a bit of laughter.

“Hey,” says a gruff voice.

Clary glances to her side, seeing Alec, tall and clad in Shadowhunter black. Folding his sturdy arms, he leans beside Clary against the wall. Feeling very small beside him, Clary sets her jaw stubbornly.

“Izzy'll be all right.” Alec doesn't look at Clary when he speaks, staring resolutely forward.

Clary's face softens a little. “I hope so.” She chews her lower lip nervously, palms itching for a stele or a blade even though she knows neither would actually do her any good right now.

“She will,” says Alec. Clary is impressed at the firmness with which he says it, sure he must be just as worried as she is.

She's grateful for his insistence. It might be as much to keep his own morale up as hers, but she's glad of it anyway.

She's never thought Alec particularly liked her, but she knows he loves his sister, and he's been grudgingly accepting of Clary since she began the charade of being Izzy's girlfriend.

Clary realizes, blinking, that Alec coming to stand near her and tell her Isabelle will be all right likely means that Isabelle hasn't yet told him that she and Clary “broke up.” Her stomach twists. She's not entirely sure if what she's feeling is guilt, relief, or some combination of the two.

Managing to dredge up a smile where she couldn't quite before, Clary bumps her shoulder into Alec, too short to nudge any higher than his bicep. “I'm sure you're right.”

Alec graces her with the tiniest of reluctant smiles, though his eyes reassure her that he still finds her presence annoying, even if he's tolerating her for now. Clary's grin becomes a little more genuine.

The sun is setting, the already shadowed area in which they stand growing red-tinted and gloomy with dusk.

Izzy's trial will start soon, Clary thinks. She hopes so, at least—the idea of Isabelle being forced to spend even more time confined to a small Institute room makes Clary's stomach tighten.

Sure enough, the sun's murky fading light is still filtering weakly through the trees by the time Robert Lightwood shows up to find his son and alert him that things are about to begin. “The Inquisitor,” some old, glaring Shadowhunter woman with sharp features and hard, cold eyes, showed up an hour ago, and will preside over the trial now that she's finished conferring in private with Lydia. Clary doesn't trust either of them.

Touching Alec on the arm and giving Clary an uncomfortable, uncertain, faintly nauseous glance, Robert nods his head toward the doors, and Alec and Clary trail silently behind him back into the Institute.

Clary peeks at Alec. He looks calm, his face expressionless and his posture tall. Clary resists the urge to fidget with her sleeves or fold her arms defensively as they delve into the high-ceilinged entryway. The air here feels stale after the lazy breeze outside; the covert glances of the Shadowhunters standing around prickle unpleasantly at the back of Clary's neck as she passes.

She and Alec follow Robert into a room Clary hasn't seen before, constructed almost like a church's chapel with an arched doorway leading to a central aisle flanked by rows of chairs, stained glass windows patterned with colored diamonds set in the walls, and a grand chair backed by a window presiding at the front over everything.

Izzy is dressed in a cerulean dress far more modest than her usual closet, her hair loose but straightened neatly, falling in a soft, thick curtain around her shoulders. There's a seat that reminds Clary of a witness stand beside the weirdly throne-like chair occupied by the Inquisitor, but Izzy is still seated in the rows of seats in the audience with her mother beside her and Jace in the row behind them.

The Inquisitor is perched in the presiding seat, in hushed conversation with Lydia Branwell but her dark, sharp eyes surveying the thin crowd of gathered Shadowhunters.

Their strides long and purposeful, Robert and Alec Lightwood join the rest of their family up the center aisle.

Clary digs her nails into her palms, catching her lip in her teeth.

She can see that the Lightwoods are talking; the ribbony black rune on her inner forearm that enhances her hearing allows her to hear what they're saying.

She chews her lip, aware that she shouldn't be eavesdropping. She can't really find it in herself to care.

“...over soon,” Maryse is saying. “As long as you're truthful, Isabelle, there shouldn't be any problem.” The sharp look that Izzy's mom directs at her daughter makes hot irritation burst in Clary's chest—it's like she's suggesting that maybe honesty isn't Izzy's first inclination, like she's warning her not to lie.

Clary is finding it awfully hard to like Izzy's mom.

Robert rests a hand on Isabelle's shoulder, his eyes softer than his wife's. “You can't lie while holding the Mortal Sword,” he says. “Just tell everyone that you weren't working for Valentine.”

 _Yes_ , Clary thinks. Isabelle will be fine. She can't be dishonest while holding the second of the Mortal Instruments, so the Clave will have to believe her. All she has to do is tell them that she's not working for Valentine, and they'll have to clear her. Right?

“You did it for your girlfriend, right? You'll be punished, Isabelle, but there's no reason for you to be stripped of your runes.” Robert's hand drops to Izzy's back, sliding around her waist to pull her close to him for just a second before he releases her. There's bright emotion visible in stone-faced, irritable Alec Lightwood's eyes, his mouth tight.

Clary looks away, guilt flooding her veins. She shouldn't be watching, shouldn't be listening to them. They're not her family, pretend-girlfriend or not.

Clary finds an empty chair in the back row, keeping her attention fixed anywhere but the Lightwoods. Her stomach feels heavy, her throat thick. _This is my fault_ , she thinks. Maybe—maybe she should go up there and tell them that. Grab the damn soul-sword and tell the Inquisitor that it's her fault Izzy got caught; she's the one who wanted the Mortal Cup, Clary, not Izzy. It's to save _her_ mom. Isabelle was only trying to help; she shouldn't be the one being punished.

Lydia steps aside from the Inquisitor, tucking her sheet of blond hair behind her shoulders. On the arm of the Inquisitor's dramatic chair rests a gavel; gripping it in a gnarled hand, the Inquisitor raps it once, sharply, against its sound block.

The room falls to silence with impressive immediacy.

Lydia says, her voice high and clear, “The trial will begin.”

 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Izzy,” she says again—no follow up, just Isabelle's name, just Izzy, nothing but her.

Lydia's posture and Maryse's are strangely similar, Clary notices. They are both straight-backed, their chins high, hands in laps. They both look very regal, Clary thinks—and very cold.

Isabelle looks calm, as far as Clary can tell from behind. Her shoulders are straight, her legs neatly crossed. It's strange to see her dressed so much like her mother.

The Inquisitor details the charges being leveled against Isabelle: working with Valentine; suspected treason; stealing property of the Clave; blah, blah, blah.

Clary tunes her out, picking anxiously at a loose thread at the knee of her jeans.

She has to go up there. She has to. This isn't Izzy's fault.

Clary is just rising from her seat when a hand grips her wrist and pulls her back down. She turns, wide-eyed with her jaw set, ready to fight off the hold of whichever Shadowhunter thinks they're going to stop her.

Clary pauses, blinking. It's not a Shadowhunter. She relaxes in her seat, but frowns a little.

“Simon?” She speaks in a whisper, the Inquisitor's voice still filling the air of the hall. “What are you doing here?”

Simon shrugs. Even that movement is more fluid, more graceful than the way the old Simon moved. Clary ignores it—he's still Simon.

“I figured you could use the support,” says Simon. “I would've been here sooner, but—vampire, remember? I came as soon as the sun went down.” His lopsided smile is just the same as always.

Clary feels her lips curve up, leaning over to bump her shoulder into Simon's. “Thanks,” she whispers, emotion swelling in her throat.

Simon nods.

They turn their eyes to the front of the hall, where Lydia is rising from her seat, the Inquisitor having fallen silent. She indicates that Izzy should come forward.

Clary's throat feels like it's closing up. “I have to go up there,” she whispers to Simon. “I have to tell them it's not Izzy's fault.”

Simon's thin fingers wrap around her wrist again. “Clary, don't.”

Clary whips her head around to look at him. “What?”

“Let the Clave work this out. This isn't your world, remember?”

“It _is_ my world, Simon,” Clary insists.

Simon shakes his head. “That's not what I meant. You didn't grow up with them; they don't trust you, and you don't know their politics. You have to let Isabelle handle herself.” Seeing Clary's dark expression, Simon sighs, though Clary knows he doesn't breathe anymore. “Look, Clary—what if you make it worse? What if you bring up something the Clave didn't even know about? They have to believe her if she's holding that magical sword, right? Just let her tell them she's not working for Valentine.”

Clary wrinkles her nose, glaring halfheartedly at Simon.

Simon rolls his eyes. “I'm right, Clary,” he says.

Clary huffs. “I know,” she grumbles. She leans back in her seat, still feeling uneasy. Simon lets go of her wrist.

Lydia has been talking to Isabelle, and Isabelle, her hands wrapped around the hilt of the long sword protruding from a whitely glowing pedestal in front of the Inquisitor, nods.

“I have not,” she says, her words slow and strong, “had any contact with Valentine Morgenstern, nor have I been carrying out his wishes.”

Cool relief washes through Clary's chest. _There_ , she thinks. _Take that, Clave. Take that, Maryse. Izzy is better than all of you._

Lydia watches Isabelle calmly. “If you weren't working for Valentine, then why did you attempt to steal the Mortal Cup?”

Isabelle's jaw hardens. Fresh anxiety churns in Clary's stomach.

“I did it for his daughter,” Isabelle says.

“Clary Fairchild? Why would you steal a Mortal Instrument from the Clave for Valentine's daughter? I fail to see how that's much better than working for her father directly.”

Isabelle's eyes narrow. “Clary doesn't want the Cup for Valentine,” she snaps. “She just wants to get her mother back. And since none of you people are doing anything to help her, the Cup is the only bargaining chip she has.”

Lydia's only reaction to Izzy's hot tone is to raise a cool eyebrow. “And why,” she asks, “Isabelle Lightwood, would you risk imprisonment and exile for this girl, if not to further her father's plans?”

Isabelle shakes back her hair, pressing her lips together. “Because,” she says, “Clary is my—”

The jewel that adorns the tip of the Mortal Sword glows a sudden red, and Isabelle breaks off with a gasp, a faint shudder running up her arms.

Clary's eyes widen; she leans forward in her chair, stopped from running up to the front of the room only by Simon's warning grip on her arm.

Izzy can't say that Clary's her girlfriend, Clary thinks. That's what she was going to say, Clary is almost sure of it. But that's a lie—they're not really dating. New fear for Izzy rushes in Clary's blood.

Isabelle's mouth tightens.

“I tried to take the Mortal Cup for Clary because...” she says, then pauses for a moment. Her eyes scan the ranks of Shadowhunters, landing for a second on Clary, then flicking away again immediately before Clary can so much as give her an encouraging smile.

Isabelle takes a breath, not looking at Clary again. “Because I love her.”

Clary blinks, waiting for the sword to gleam with its truth-telling red light, waiting for Isabelle's arms to shiver.

No such thing happens.

Clary doesn't understand, for a moment—and then she does. Shock pours through her.

If Isabelle's not lying, that means... well, that she's telling the truth. About _loving Clary_.

Clary feels suddenly dizzy.

At her side, Simon is watching the proceedings with wide, startled eyes, although no one else in the room looks surprised. Of course they don't, Clary realizes. They never knew she and Isabelle weren't really a couple.

Clary's eyes are fixed to Isabelle. She can tell her expression is startled, her eyes wide, lips parted—but Izzy isn't looking at her anyway, her gaze calm and level on Lydia.

“I know I'll be punished,” she says, removing her hands from the hilt of the sword and folding them in front of herself. “But I have not been working for Valentine. My crimes were committed only out of love and a desire to help.” Her lip curls ever so slightly. “Not that that means anything to the Clave.”

“Oh, enough,” Lydia says, faint annoyance in her voice. “Stop taking jabs at your leaders, Isabelle.” She purses her lips, eyes narrowing as she seems to think.

“We'll need time to discuss your sentencing,” she announces finally. “Unless you have any further questions, Madam Inquisitor?”

The Inquisitor shakes her head slowly, her hard gaze on Isabelle. “No,” she says. “I've heard enough.”

Giving a curt nod, Lydia turns back to Izzy. “You will be called once we've reached a decision. Thank you for your honesty, Isabelle Lightwood.”

Isabelle gives her a smile that Clary doubts convinces a single Shadowhunter in the room of its sincerity. “Thanks,” she says, her mouth curled sarcastically.

Obediently, though looking like it pains her to do so, she holds out her hands to Lydia, wrists together, allowing Lydia, pulling out a stele, to trace a glittering figure-eight loop around her wrists, sealing the band of white-silver energy with a rune. Izzy's mouth twitches, with pain or annoyance Clary can't quite tell. Her wrists are encircled and bound by a glimmering cord of light—handcuffs, essentially, but made of something sparkling and powerful-looking, twinkling with a sinister heat. It looks as though it might burn Isabelle's wrists if she struggles. Clary's hand rises to her mouth almost of its own accord.

Simon wraps her fingers in his own, pulling her hand back to her side. He gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Anxiety still constricts Clary's chest.

The Inquisitor says, “You may wait outside, Isabelle Lightwood.”

With her head held high and her lips pinched with annoyance, Izzy takes long-legged strides down the center aisle, her slender black heels sounding sharply against the stone floor. Her gaze doesn't fall on Clary for so much as a second, her eyes held carefully forward.

A new layer of unease settles in Clary's bones.

Alec unfolds from his chair, motions graceful but hurried. His long legs eat the distance of the aisle in what looks to Clary like only a few steps. He grabs the door handle before Isabelle has to struggle to open it with her bound hands, his mouth a grim line. Clary feels vaguely sick.

Alec follows his sister into the hallway, though his parents stay where they are.

Clary hesitates, but only for a moment. She doesn't need Simon's nudge to convince her to stand quietly and slip from the room after Isabelle, her heart settling uncomfortably in her throat like an unwanted cat curling up determinedly for a nap atop its owner's work.

It's quiet in the hall, though the faint squeaks of Clary's sneakered steps echo from the stone floor and walls and high ceiling. Alec has an arm around his sister, fingertips looped in the hair that lays across her shoulder, but with a nod to Clary, he steps aside, pulling a cell phone from his jacket pocket to give them at least a minimal amount of privacy.

“Iz,” Clary says through a stoppered throat. Words spill out of her, fast, in a rush to be released. “Izzy, I'm so—I'm so sorry.” Her eyes are burning, but she's not going to cry. She won't.

Isabelle looks at her for the first time since before she admitted her feelings while holding the Mortal Sword, glancing up from beneath long, dark lashes. She's so beautiful that Clary feels a sharp ache in her chest.

The ache fades quickly to gentle warmth, to a soft-petaled baby flower of hope. _Isabelle loves her_.

“Izzy,” she says again—no follow up, just Isabelle's name, just Izzy, nothing but her.

Isabelle's lips tremble with an emotion that Clary can't identify.

Hands shaking, Clary's feet carry her forward.

“Izzy,” she says. She reaches to cradle Isabelle's jaw in her palms, leans closer, wanting to press the lengths of them together and align their mouths so they can kiss without Maryse or Robert present, kiss just for them.

But before Clary's lips reach hers, Isabelle flinches backward as if she's been struck.

Clary's heart pounds. “Isabelle?”

Izzy presses her lips together tightly; she turns her head sharply aside, not looking at Clary, and Clary's heart sinks down to her toes, the small flower of hope blossoming in her ribcage wilting as fast as a time-lapse video of the coming of fall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves goodbye to canon* listen ep 11 was good i liked the trial my gfs were both amazing but also............... it wasnt nearly gay enough or izzy-centric enough bye


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabelle's self-satisfied, catlike grin is familiar, as is the mischievous sparkle of her dark eyes. She shrugs one shoulder. “I've spent a fair amount of time around the Seelies. I know a thing or two about how to tell the truth creatively.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long omg. i couldn't manage to get this chapter to END. this is a long one I hope you like it buddies.

_I was wrong_ , Clary thinks. _I was wrong: It wasn't true. Isabelle doesn't love me. She found some way to lie while_ _hold_ _ing the sword._

She can't think of another way to explain Izzy flinching away from her.

Her chest hurts, a sharp pain behind her ribs, not unlike the burn of a stele, but worse.

“Oh,” Clary breathes out, taking a small step back. She drops her hands to her sides, balling them into fists. Her nails dig into her palms. “Izzy, I'm so sorry, I thought you—I didn't mean to—”

“Stop,” Izzy says shortly, her voice high, “apologizing.” Reluctantly, her eyes large, she glances at Clary.

“I—” Clary stops. She bites her lip. If Isabelle doesn't want her to apologize for misinterpreting, for nearly kissing her because she thought Isabelle liked her back … then Clary has no idea what to say.

“I would've taken the Cup for you no matter what. You didn't have to ask,” Isabelle says, her voice quiet but steady. Her big eyes glitter with feeling. “Don't you get that? Didn't you—didn't you hear?” She looks scared, sick, upset. “Don't apologize to me, Clary. The Clave was wrong, and you should have the Cup if that's what your mother wanted, and—and of course I would help you. You're not in the wrong, Clary. And you didn't ask me to do it.” She takes a breath, her eyes wide and her mouth pressed in a thin line. “I did it because—” She looks away again, mouth twisting. “Well.” Her voice is small and bitter, her face drawn. “You heard why.”

Clary blinks. Several times.

She thinks, _Oh_.

“Oh, Iz,” she says, breath catching in her throat. “Izzy—” Her words tangle, in a rush to leave her tongue. “Me, too. I love you, too.”

Izzy didn't pull away because she didn't love Clary—she withdrew because she thought _Clary_ didn't love _her_.

Izzy's soft dark eyes are widening, her red lips parted.

“I didn't say anything because I didn't want to mess up your plan—I didn't want to mess anything up for your brother, but—” She suddenly can't bear to not be touching Isabelle. She reaches for Izzy's hands, realizes they're still bound, grasps at her shoulders instead. “I love you, Iz,” she repeats earnestly, and Izzy makes a tiny little sound in the back of her throat and leans in, eyes closing, and catches Clary's lips with her own like she can't stand to wait another second to kiss her.

Clary's insides melt. She responds immediately, tugging gently at the swell of Izzy's soft bottom lip. She teases the seam of Izzy's mouth with her tongue, presses in closer when Isabelle opens her mouth for Clary with a quiet sigh.

Clary walks her carefully backward, feeling Izzy stop when her back hits the wall, and then Clary pushes closer, steps forward so that they're touching from knees to chests to mouths. Izzy is warm, soft against her, though her bound hands are awkwardly between them until Izzy pulls away from the kiss for a moment to loop her arms over Clary's head and tug her back in harder, kissing her like she can and wants to meld them completely, permanently together.

It's with a lightly exhaled laugh that Clary pulls away, touching Izzy's cheek with her nose, ducking her head to press the side of her face to the warm skin of Izzy's neck. They're both breathless, had forgotten to breathe; Clary can feel the slightly accelerated rise and fall of Izzy's chest, and it shapes her mouth into a smile, makes her feel a warm, thrilling surge of powerfulness.

“I didn't …” Clary says. She shakes her head a little. Isabelle shivers as Clary's hair tickles her collarbones. “I didn't realize you thought I didn't like you—I mean, I thought there was no way you didn't know, I thought …”

“I thought you would hate me,” Izzy whispers.

Clary leans back to look at her, still caught in the loop of Izzy's arms. Shock is probably written clearly across Clary's face. She wrinkles her nose. “Well—honestly, Iz, I thought you were smarter than that.”

With a bright, tinkling laugh that's both delighted and indignant, Isabelle pulls Clary in closer, catching Clary's bottom lip between her teeth in admonishment.

Clary can't help her grin when they separate again. Her cheeks feel warm, flushed. Izzy's eyes are bright and twinkling, her body soft and warm against Clary's front.

“Really,” Clary says, continuing as if they hadn't just interrupted their own conversation. “You're brilliant, Iz.” She smiles, her cheeks warming further, faint embarrassment speeding the already fast racing of her heart. “That was pretty clever, telling Lydia you loved me, since you couldn't say I was your girlfriend.”

Isabelle's self-satisfied, catlike grin is familiar, as is the mischievous sparkle of her dark eyes. She shrugs one shoulder. “I've spent a fair amount of time around the Seelies. I know a thing or two about how to tell the truth creatively.”

“Well,” Clary says. She reaches up, putting her fingers into Isabelle's thick, soft hair and combing it gently out of her face. “I'm glad you did. I wasn't wild about the idea of you being accused of working for Valentine.”

Isabelle makes a face, her pretty features twisting. “Let's not talk about Valentine, okay?”

Clary grins. “Yeah,” she says, already leaning in to meet Izzy's lips. “Whatever you want.”

 

 

They're kissing when Jace emerges into the hallway; Clary's got her fingers twisted firmly in the soft length of Izzy's hair, mouth joined with Izzy's soft lips, the feeling of Izzy's heart beating quickly an urgent, driving time-keeper.

It takes Jace clearing his throat to get their attention. Embarrassment burns in Clary's cheeks as she glances at him, disconnected from the soft warmth of Izzy's mouth but unmoving from the circle of Izzy's arms.

Alec had retreated back into the room of the trial, both anxious and, Clary suspects, not entirely keen to watch his sister and her girlfriend make out.

Looking at Jace, Clary licks her lips—she wonders if her mouth is as kissed-raw as it feels. “Yes, Jace?”

She feels Isabelle's eyes on the side of her face, but doesn't look at her, can't look or she knows she'll get pulled back into that quiet, tiny bubble where the two of them are the only two that exist, and all that matters is touching Izzy, kissing her, murmuring a love confession into her mouth.

Jace's eyebrows rise and fall once, a sharp grin curving his mouth. “I was gonna tell you they dropped the charges,” he says, “and Izzy can take those cuffs off. But if you'd rather leave them on, go back to Izzy's room for a while …”

Teeth gritted, Clary says, “Shut up, Jace,” at the same time that Izzy says “Jace Lightwood, you take these cuffs off me right now before I use them to strangle you.”

Clary turns to grin at her. Isabelle's smile is slight but smug, her deeply brown eyes glittering. Clary lets her lips skim across Izzy's mouth another time, not quite a kiss, before she ducks out of the loop of Izzy's arms to watch curiously as Jace touches a small, quarter-sized silver disk to the burning white that binds Izzy's wrists. Clary thinks she can see an Unlocking rune on the disk before, with a short, quiet hiss, the cuffs flicker once and vanish.

The relief that Clary feels at the sight of Isabelle's skin unharmed by the glowing cuffs is dizzying, even though she'd known the flame should only burn Izzy had she tried to struggle free.

Isabelle's arms are unbound just in time for her to throw them around her brother, who comes into the hallway moments after Jace, his face painted with relief.

Jace takes a step back, his expression as he watches his siblings as close to fond as Clary thinks she's ever seen. Amused, she moves to stand beside him, a few paces away from Alec and Isabelle; this moment is for the two of them, not Jace and Clary.

Well—that's what Clary thinks. Apparently thinking otherwise, Isabelle glances behind herself, an arm around her brother's waist and the other extended, reaching for Clary.

Opening her mouth uncertainly, Clary accepts the familiar grip of Izzy's hand, letting herself be pulled forward to stand on Isabelle's other side, fingers intertwined. Jace and Alec embrace—a manly affair involving the hearty slapping of backs—and are just separating when Robert and Maryse stride together into the hallway.

Clary tenses. Maryse's hard, dark eyes fall on Clary, and Clary watches Izzy's mom tense, too.

Then, to Clary's surprise, Maryse's shoulders relax, and a convincingly genuine smile lifts her mouth. Clary nearly looks behind herself in confusion, sure that Maryse can't be looking at her.

“Isabelle,” says Robert, hurrying forward to wrap burly arms around his daughter. Izzy doesn't let go of Clary's hand, hugging her dad one-armed.

Maryse says, “Oh, sweetheart.”

Clary watches Isabelle, Izzy's delicate mouth set and her gaze on her mother wary.

“We're just so happy you're all right,” Maryse says. Her expression never wavers from its characteristic cut-stone solemnity, but her voice holds more emotion than Clary's ever heard before.

Silently, Isabelle grips Clary's hand tighter. Maryse's gaze flickers down to their clasped hands. Her lips part. She gives a slight nod.

She says again, “We're just relieved that you're okay.” Her eyes move from her daughter, to Clary, then back. She takes a breath. “What I mean to say is—we don't mind that you acted for Clarissa. We wish you hadn't broken the law, but—you acted out of love, and that's all we could hope for, isn't it? That our child would be in love and be happy?”

Isabelle gives her brother a sharp look, but Alec is staring intently off into space, his expression beyond Clary's ability to decipher.

Izzy presses her lips together. “Yes,” she says, her tone a little sharp. “It is.” Maryse looks faintly reprimanded, which makes Isabelle smile, which provokes a hesitant returning smile from Maryse. The corners of Clary's mouth twitch up.

Lydia is the next person to exit the hall, and behind her follow sporadic clumps of other Shadowhunters who had observed or participated in the trial. Clary can't name most of them, save the Lightwoods themselves, Lydia, and Raj.

“Isabelle,” Lydia says. She's smiling brightly. “Congratulations.”

Izzy's eyes narrow. “Lydia,” she says curtly. “If you're offering me congratulations, am I expected to offer you my condolences?”

Lydia blinks, her mouth opening. “Isabelle—you have to know that I didn't _want_ to prosecute you.”

Isabelle's eyebrows rise. Her grip tightens on Clary's hand. “Really?” she says coolly. “Do I have to know that?”

Somewhat to Clary's surprise, Lydia looks stricken. Clary hasn't spent much time considering the possibility that Lydia's just doing her job—not that that's an excuse.

Lydia's tone is pacifying. “Isabelle, the Clave wanted someone arrested. It looked as though you were cooperating with Valentine—the Inquisitor insisted on a trial. My hands were tied.”

“Not literally, though.” Izzy's mouth curves with a slim dagger of a smile. “Not like mine were.”

Lydia inclines her head. “I'm truly sorry, Isabelle Lightwood. All I can give you is my word that I'm glad I'm able to avoid both prosecuting you and angering the Inquisitor.”

The doors swing open again, and Clary mutters grimly, “Speak of the devil.”

The Inquisitor's eyes are cold, dark pieces of polished stone in her face, her mouth pinched tightly as though she's just tasted something violently sour. Her hard eyes fall on Clary, and her expression manages to curdle even further.

“Clarissa Fairchild.” Her voice is clear and cold, with all the bite of a gust of winter wind.

Isabelle squeezes Clary's hand. Clary feels Simon come up beside her, Jace's shoulders tensing, Alec widening his stance. Sudden gratitude for her friends fireworks within Clary's ribcage.

“Aside from the Cup, there is nothing for me to bring back to the Clave, and your little girlfriend nearly cost us that as well.” The Inquisitor's eyes narrow. “Your father should be pleased.”

Hot anger boils in Clary's chest. “I'm not working with him,” she spits. “You know that. I don't even know him. And he kidnapped my mom! I hate him just as much as any of you.”

The Inquisitor makes a noncommittal, thoughtful noise in her throat, but continues to watch Clary with eyes that are distrustful and annoyed.

Her acidic gaze scans over Isabelle, over Alec, over Jace and the Lightwoods' parents. Then her eyes fall on Simon and rest there. Taking in the pallor of his skin, the dark tracery of his veins underneath his strangely pale composition, she goes very still.

Unease coils tightly in Clary's stomach.

“Why,” says the Inquisitor, “is there a Child of the Night on Clave property?”

Isabelle glares at her. “He has a name, you know.”

“I'm here for Clary,” says Simon sharply, setting his shoulders. “You know, for support, since you put her girlfriend on trial for no good reason.”

The Inquisitor surveys Clary icily. “Aware of our world only recently, and you're already making the wrong kinds of friends, Ms. Fairchild?”

Before Clary can hurl back a sufficiently vicious reply, the Inquisitor lifts her chin imperiously and continues on. “He couldn't have opened the doors without Shadowhunter blood. Who let this vampire into the building?”

Jace folds his arms across his chest, his strong forearms tense. “I did.” He holds the Inquisitor's stare levelly. Clary looks at him, surprised, but Jace just keeps staring down the Inquisitor.

“You had no authority to do so, Jace Wayland.” The Inquisitor's eyes move to Raj. “Have the Night's Child arrested,” she says briskly, and strides through the small crowd toward the Institute's Portal door with her head high.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen.. i love cliffhangers bye


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You'd do that for Simon?” Clary asks. “For me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait omg,,,, life is rough!! anyway im happy to be moving on this again ✌

Isabelle very nearly had to bodily drag Clary back from following as Simon was escorted none too gently away. As it was, Clary only relented due to the combination of Izzy's hand tight on her own, Simon's sharp look and his earnest request that she not follow him, and Jace's hard-faced promise that he'd “handle this.”

Something in the steel of Jace's eyes reminded Clary of the way he looks when he's yelling in defense of his parabatai—she wouldn't have expected him to wear that expression when concerned about Simon, but somehow, it was quite reassuring.

“Hey.” Isabelle's voice is soft-edged, gentle. Clary looks at her; Izzy is perched on the edge of her bed, Clary nearby but too electrified with tension to sit. “Simon will be okay.” Izzy offers a kind smile. “Alec and Jace and I will make sure of it.”

Anger is searing through Clary's veins, has been for the last half hour—but a look at Isabelle's soft dark eyes makes her stomach drop and her rage dissipate like so much smoke.

Here's Isabelle moments after being on trial for her right to remain a Shadowhunter, and she's comforting _Clary_. Clary's blood still rushes with a pressing need to be with Simon, be helping him, be fighting that asshole Inquisitor—but Alec and Izzy convinced her to let Jace see what he could do before she gets involved too, and so for now, Clary sinks down beside Isabelle on the bed.

Isabelle's bed has grown familiar to Clary in the past weeks. The feeling of the soft fabric of its red sheets under her palm makes her think of waking up to the poke of pale morning light through the window, Isabelle just in reach, hair spread wildly around her, dark against her pillow.

A jolt goes up Clary's spine—they could wake up like that and have it all be real now: Clary could stretch her hand across the expanse of red sheets between them and comb Isabelle's soft hair back from her face; she could twine her fingers through Isabelle's and kiss her softly as soon as she wakes, and she could mean it—that would be something that Isabelle _wants_.

This isn't occurring to Clary for the first time—it's just that each time she remembers Isabelle loves her, it hits her again just as strongly, a punch to the gut that leaves her breathless and giddily happy.

If her best friend hadn't just been arrested, things would be great.

Isabelle's hand lies on her knee, her skin a rich gold against the blue of her dress in the room's lamplight. Feeling her pulse in her throat, Clary reaches out with her own skinny, pale fingers.

Izzy glances up at the touch of Clary's fingertips to the back of her hand. Wordlessly she flips her hand palm-up on her knee, lacing her fingers through Clary's. Her eyes, brown and deep, nearly black, are thoughtful.

By the time she opens her mouth to speak, Clary is expecting her to say something serious, something about them, something about their relationship. Clary's stomach flops in anticipation.

Then Izzy says, “I checked who's monitoring Institute security this shift. It's a guy I used to mess around with. I could probably get you the keys to Simon's cell, but it depends how comfortable you are with me being the... _distraction_.” and Clary has to blink and reorient herself.

“I—” she says. “You—.” Clary blinks again, face settling into a frown. Her head spins a little bit.

“It's taking Jace too long. Alec would say we should wait, but—” Izzy makes a face. “Well, that's Alec.”

“You'd do that for Simon?” Clary asks. “For me?”

Izzy shrugs a shoulder, looking unconcerned. Her eyes fall to their tangled-together fingers; she brushes over Clary's knuckle absently, repetitively with the pad of her thumb.

“Flirt for keys? It wouldn't be a big deal to me,” she says. “It wouldn't mean anything. But I won't do it if it makes you uncomfortable.” Her big eyes meet Clary's again, their darkness soft and gentle and vast.

Clary bites her lip, thinks of Isabelle... _distracting_ some Shadowhunter guy. Smiling at him. Flicking her pretty eyes downward so she can peek up from under her lashes. Letting the soft length of her hair fall loosely over her shoulder.

“You wouldn't mean it?” she asks, staring down at Izzy's thumb, rubbing small circles against Clary's skin. “And you wouldn't mind? I mean, I'm not thrilled about the idea, but I wouldn't—I wouldn't ask you not to, or anything. And if it's the easiest way to help Simon...”

Abruptly, Clary shakes her head.

“I don't think I'm saying this right. I want to say that I like you, so I'm not _happy_ about the idea of you flirting with someone else, but if it's for a good reason, then it's... I get it. It's okay. But only if it doesn't make you uncomfortable.”

Izzy uses her free hand to tip Clary's face upward, fingertips gentle on her chin. She's grinning. “If I hadn't gotten comfortable unfeelingly flirting with random men by now,” she says, “I'd have killed a lot fewer demons.”

 

 

They head down to the Institute's first floor once Izzy has checked her makeup—which Clary told her was perfect and didn't need fixing, to which Isabelle's response was to say, “You're biased,” then kiss the tip of Clary's nose while Clary's cheeks flared bright, and then turn back to her vanity mirror to finish making minute adjustments to her eyeliner.

At the base of the stairs, Izzy gestures in the direction of the hallway that leads to another staircase, and that staircase to the basement. Because it's the Institute, and having vampire cells anywhere but down a long corridor below the main floor wouldn't be sinister enough, Clary supposes.

Izzy indicates next the direction she'll need to go to score the cell keys, gesturing a different direction from the cells.

Clary squeezes Izzy's hand once, smiling gratefully. Izzy's returning smile is smug, the confidence of a predatory cat in her sharp eyes and the blade of her smirk.

Clary's spine tingles. She feels more eager than she ever yet has to get this over with, all of it—she wants Simon free and her mother back and Valentine gone and the Cup safe and Alec happy and the Institute under proper unprejudiced control and Luke and his pack safe, and she wants to slink up the Institute's main staircase and slip into Isabelle's room and take Izzy's soft hair from its updo with her fingers and fall back onto Izzy's red-sheeted bed side by side and spend an awful lot of time just making out.

But—everything in order. First: Simon.

“You should go see if anyone's around,” Isabelle suggests. “Just say you're there to see Simon if anyone asks. I'll join you with the keys at the top of the stairs as soon as I can as long as there's no one on watch.” She takes a breath. “There shouldn't be.” Her lips pinch. “I hope there's not.”

And with those fabulously uplifting words, Clary releases Isabelle's hand and crosses to the basement stairs.

Her sneakers slap too loudly against the hard floor, though at least she's not wearing a pair of Isabelle's commanding boots. Does she look suspicious? Clary's palms feel warm; she wipes them against her jeans. Having done that, she suddenly has no idea what to do with her hands—does she stick them in her pockets? Leave them at her sides? Why can't she seem to remember how she normally walks?

It is testament to the busyness of the Institute's Shadowhunters, Clary thinks, more than to her own rather lacking Shadowhunter stealth, that she reaches the top of the staircase having drawn no curiosity.

She turns to look back just once before she descends. Isabelle is out of sight.

Taking a deep breath and balling her hands at her sides, Clary starts down the stairs.

 


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic bursts through her; her heart begins all at once to beat in triple-time. Her palms tingle with her spine tight, her throat closing.
> 
> She reaches for the dagger that Izzy keeps insisting she wear in a sheath on her calf—but a hand grips her wrist. Fresh panic pours through her, cold and sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek about this anymore but i dont like abandoning things so i'll still b finishing it [peace sign emoji] idk
> 
> also i swear luke will b here by the next chapter lmao i keep having problems where every time i bring him in he solves things way too quickly so. i wanted these kids to Flounder sorry for the wait lol

Clary can't quite stifle the urge to peer behind herself as she skips quickly down the stairs to the basement, neck prickling, alert for anyone watching her with suspicion.

No one's eyes follow her—but her distraction does mean that she crashes straight into the dark, narrow figure about to take the stairs in the opposite direction.

Panic bursts through her; her heart begins all at once to beat in triple-time. Her palms tingle with her spine tight, her throat closing.

She reaches for the dagger that Izzy keeps insisting she wear in a sheath on her calf—but a hand grips her wrist. Fresh panic pours through her, cold and sick.

She tries to yank away from the strong grip, glancing up to glare into the face of her aggravator—

“Oh,” she says. Her body relaxes. “Simon.” She frowns. “What are you—How are you here?”

Simon’s grin is sharp. In the dusky Institute lighting, his face looks pale against his dark hair and dark eyes. His teeth are a shock of white, an unnerving glitter of brightness.

It takes another long moment for the last of Clary’s panic to drain away.

“You’d think,” says Simon, “that these Shadowhunters would know by now to ask a vampire what religion they follow. Or have they just seriously never met a non-Christian vampire? I mean, is there some weird Christian-only mindset among vampires that I just don’t know about yet, or what?” His eyes narrow. “Or do Shadowhunters just really hate Downworlders so much that they’ve managed to only meet a few vampires in all the years they’ve been doing this? Have they just, what, never met a Jewish vampire? Seriously, I don’t get it.”

Clary watches Simon with wide eyes. She says, “What?”

Simon blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Right. ‘How am I here.’ Yeah.” He grins again. His grins are always sharp now, Clary thinks. Her darling, dorky best friend is now also super strong and comes with the possibility of danger. She wonders faintly if he likes it. When this is over, she’ll definitely have to ask him how he feels about being a total badass.

“You know how I said Raphael wears a crucifix and it burns him? The Shadowhunters have crosses and Christian symbols all over their cell door, but …” Simon shrugs. “The whole “Jesus” thing isn’t exactly my gig.” He wiggles his fingers. “And with my new vampire strength, it’s pretty easy to open a locked door.”

“Oh,” Clary says. “Oh.” She feels, stupidly, a hot burn of emotion rise in her chest, and then her eyes are burning too, and she says, “Oh, _Simon_.”

His arms come around her automatically when she throws herself into hugging him, like they always do.

“Simon, they _locked you up_ ,” she whispers, and she’s trying to fight off tears but it’s only sort-of working. She’s sad and furious in equal measure. She’ll rip these Shadowhunters apart if they take her best friend again.

“Yeah.” With some effort, Simon pulls out of Clary’s death-grip hug. “But, I mean. With nobody keeping an eye on me since they thought I was locked up, I did, uh. Get this?” He produces a smile and also—

“Simon, oh my _god_. Is that—?”

Simon grins. “The Mortal Cup?” He looks ridiculously smug, holding up the smoky-glass chalice that he's pulled from his back pocket. “Yeah.”

“Simon!” Clary’s cheeks are still wet, but now she’s grinning, too. “You’re a _badass_!”

Simon only looks more smug. “I kind of am, aren’t I?”

She hits his arm, because he’s a nerd, and she has to.

Then she bites her lip. “What are we going to … _do_ with it, though? I mean, I’m glad we have it, but …”

Simon’s grin fades a notch. He says, “Oh. I hadn’t really … thought about that, yet?”

A small laugh bubbles from Clary’s chest. She leans into Simon, taking his hand and starting back up the steps. “Okay. Well, we’ll figure it out. The important thing is that you’re free—”

A voice from up the staircase hisses: “Clary? _Clary_!”

It’s Isabelle; her immediately recognizable tall heels and long legs come into view a moment later, followed by the rest of her. Her dark eyes widen. “And _Simon_?”

Clary grins. “He got out,” she states, unnecessarily.

Izzy’s eyebrows rise. “I can see that. But he needs to get back _in_! Clary, Lydia’s coming.”

Clary feels her eyes widen. “What?”

“The Inquisitor’s gone. Lydia’s letting Simon out. But if he’s not _there_ to be _let_ out …”

“We’ll all be in way deeper trouble,” Simon finishes for her.

Izzy nods, joining them at the bottom of the stairs. “Yes.”

“That’s no problem. I’ll just—” Simon hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing. “jog back to my cozy jail cell to wait for them.” He grins. Then the expression freezes on his face. He opens his mouth, wincing. “Um … The lock on the door is a little bit broken, though. I don’t think I can do anything about that.”

Izzy presses her lips together. “We’ll just have to hope that as long as you’re still there, they’ll forgive you. We don’t have time for anything else. Go, Simon.”

Simon flashes a smile, turns to go—and turns back again.

“Oh, yeah. I probably shouldn’t have this on me.” His arm moves with unnatural speed that Clary’s eyes can’t follow. Izzy’s reflexes are even sharper than her blades—she catches the thrown object before Clary even realizes what’s happening.

Izzy looks at her hand, and her eyes go big. “You took the Cup?” she says. Her eyes are still getting bigger. “ _Again_?”

Simon shrugs. He grins. Then he runs back down the hallway, zipping out of sight with his brand-new super-speed.

Isabelle turns her disbelieving gaze to Clary.

Clary winces, smiling. “Um. Oops?”

Izzy stares at Clary. She shakes her head, looking faintly lost. “I love you, you know that?” she gets out.

Clary grins broadly. “So I’ve heard.” She grabs for Izzy’s hand. “Now come on. What the hell are we gonna do with this Cup?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Awesome pep talk,” says Simon.
> 
> “You’re inspirational, young Miss Fray,” Magnus agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly....... breaking up with this show lmao. they needed to improve in season 2, not become /more/ racist??? so.
> 
> anyway here's the last chapter!!! i promised i'd finish this thing no matter what so here ! take it ! bye!

Luke, it turns out, is not super thrilled about the idea of letting a warlock, a vampire, and a handful of Shadowhunters use the Jade Wolf as a place to kick up their feet, hide the powerful magical artifact they’ve stolen from the Clave, and discuss strategy.

But, like, he’s been Clary’s adoptive step-dad for her entire life. She knows the guy. He _is_ super thrilled about the idea of helping her, and saving her mom—and if she happens to present him with a box of take-out teriyaki when they all show up on his doorstep, well. It doesn’t exactly hurt their case.

Teriyaki does little to help when Magnus Bane shows up in a swirl of flashing blue magic that leaves an astounding amount of loose glitter floating gently through the air in his wake to settle on Luke’s floor. Luke closes his eyes, and Clary can see him swallowing his annoyance.

“Magnus,” he says, nodding.

The High Warlock of Brooklyn gives him a smile and a wiggle of his fingers, an array of rings catching the fluorescent restaurant lights. “Lucian. Always a pleasure.”

“Yeah.” Luke’s smile rests somewhere in between fond and completely annoyed. Those two have a weird relationship, if you ask Clary. They’re friends, sort of, she thinks. They’ve known each other since before she was born. Still, Luke was always more involved with Shadowhunters than Magnus, even used to _be_ a Shadowhunter, so they’re not without their tension. Like she said: weird.

“Sit down, warlock.”

Magnus’s eyes skim the room, dancing over Izzy and Clary in a booth across from Simon; the Cup resting on the table; Luke leaning against the back counter. His gaze stops at Alec. His face lightens; his smile curves sharper and his eyes gain a new spark.

Izzy grins. Clary elbows her in the side.

Izzy stifles her smile, but Clary still knows that she’s thrilled at the way Alec’s face struggles for a calm expression when Magnus winks at him and snags a chair from the closest table to seat himself nearby.

“Good to see you, Alexander.”

Alec manages to stay stony-faced, but red creeps up the side of his neck. Izzy squeezes Clary’s hand.

Clary knows Izzy’s rooting too hard for Alec to take a chance on Magnus to help him out, so she takes pity on the poor guy herself and clears her throat.

“So, we have the Cup, but Valentine still has my mom. And he probably still wants to—you know, destroy the whole Downworld and other evil stuff.”

“Awesome pep talk,” says Simon.

“You’re inspirational, young Miss Fray,” Magnus agrees.

Clary ignores them both. “Raphael said we might have the support of the vampires, at least if things get really desperate.” She glances at Luke. “And we have the werewolves.”

Luke gives a half-smile. He looks tired. Clary knows he misses her mom at least as much as she does. She makes herself take a breath, and from somewhere, she finds a smile.

“Come on,” she says. “What hope does Valentine have against four Shadowhunters, a vampire, a pack of werewolves, and the High Warlock of Brooklyn?”

She’s feeling good about the smile this brings to Luke’s eyes when a belabored sigh comes from the side. She glances at Magnus, eyebrows rising. He unfolds himself gracefully from his chair, standing and lifting one hand elegantly in the air, making a questioning gesture.

“Why,” he says, sighing, “do you people keep assuming that I’m going to help you? And for free?” His eyebrows arch up, which, Clary notes, nicely displays his glittery gold eyeshadow. He’s posed himself very dramatically by the time he says, “My help comes at a cost, little Shadowhunters.”

It’s with a sudden lurching drop in her stomach that Clary realizes she’d just been assuming that Magnus would help her. She hasn’t even actually asked him—she’s just been counting on his support. A sick feeling crawls up her throat. Magnus’s help is huge. Without him …

It’s while Clary is in the midst of her own personal panic, wondering if there’s anything she can possibly offer Magnus that he would want, wondering if there’s anything Luke could say to him to persuade him, that someone else gets a grip on their own panic and rises from his chair.

As usual, once standing, Alec is immediately the tallest person in the room.

Unlike usual, his shoulders aren’t curved inward; his eyes don’t slide away from Magnus, but instead catch and hold on his face. Alec takes a step forward, and then several more, quickly, bringing him right in front of Magnus, and Izzy is suddenly squeezing Clary’s hand so hard that it hurts.

No one moves.

Clary thinks Alec is holding his breath. Actually, she thinks everyone is.

Alec leans down and in, one hand rising to cup the back of Magnus’s neck gently. Both of their eyes close as Alec erases the distance between them. His lips meet Magnus’s. Clary hears Izzy exhale.

It’s a tender kiss—Clary looks away, sharing a grin with Isabelle.

When Alec pulls back, his face is a swirl of emotions, but his mouth has a distinct upward curve.

Magnus stares at him. He looks more startled than Clary has ever seen him. She watches him swallow.

Seeming to find himself, Magnus says, finally, “All right. I will consider that a down payment.” He looks to Clary. “You have my assistance, Miss Fray.”

At Clary’s side, Izzy snorts.

Clary says, “Thank you,” around a clogged throat, meaning it more than she thinks she’s ever meant anything in all her life. “All of you. I mean it.”

Simon grins at her, and Luke looks hopeful, and Alec’s stoic expression is undercut by his red cheeks.

Clary looks at Izzy, who is smiling brightly. She takes a deep breath.

“We can do this, right?”

Izzy squeezes her hand in answer. Clary’s leans into her girlfriend’s warm side.

 


End file.
